


can't be pablo if your work ain't sellin'

by thehatpile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Frottage, M/M, Music, Oral Sex, underground rapper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 15:19:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13484280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehatpile/pseuds/thehatpile
Summary: They meet in NYC, Dave's home turf as much as anything they attribute to themselves could ever be called theirs. Dave is five foot nothing with an ego the size of the stage. He walks with a palpability Dirk wants to run his tongue over, dyes his hair black but leaves his eyebrows a curious too-translucent white; or perhaps he's just a start-up douchebag who thinks he's hot shit for bleaching his brows.





	can't be pablo if your work ain't sellin'

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Enwah on the Stridercest Discord Server.

They meet in NYC, Dave's home turf as much as anything they attribute to themselves could ever be called  _theirs_.

_ The Wick's _  door is hidden behind two dumpsters and a fire-exit door up to the staircase of a dilapidated house somewhere in a Brooklyn back alley.

It's a dive, quite frankly said, but it's a dive they play Aesop Rock and Sage Francis at every Friday without fail, old-school snarl through the messy Böse speakers, one never quite recovered from the kick it got one cold evening mid-December three years ago.

Point is, Friday's old school, watching too-rich wannabes front up close to the stage with Timberlands and clean cheeks,  _amateurs_ , Dirk's companions spit into their drinks,  _betcha they dropped two attempts at half-hearted hooks on soundcloud and call themselves_   _ **rappers**_   _now_.

But Dirk's more interested in what comes after, because open mic in the burrows of Brooklyn, so deep into its underbelly that even the natives go  _Bushwick? Naw, you don't wanna go there_ , is supposed to be a production all unto its own.

Ben Yonas does the mixing every so often, a shadowed figure bolstered by the mythical label of  _valid_ , the one time he produced an album by Zion I, collaborated with Zumbi and Amp Live somewhere along the hazy days of 2010.

But he's good if not flawless, all clean-cut cues and syncs just the right side of messy.

And Dirk's vaguely interested, invested if not for the technique, then at least for the experience of being able to boast about it later, tell Jake back home that he's shook the hand of someone doing dirt for Mos Def,  _Mos fucking Def, you listening, you hearing this shit?_

But then Dave gets on stage and Dirk forgets about his inhibitions roughly around the time Dave adjusts the mic, muffles its acoustic FB with one hand around the boom. Throws a crooked smile to the direction of the audience catcalls are emerging from, the emotion spilling sloppily across the PVC floor inlaid with wood aesthetic, over the beer stains and ash and the tang of sweat and aggression. Into Dirk's stomach, a clean cut.

Truth is, he's more intrigued than taken, because Dave, Dave is five foot  _nothing_  with an ego the size of the stage. He walks with a palpability Dirk wants to run his tongue over, dyes his hair black but leaves his eyebrows a curious too-translucent white; or perhaps he's just a start-up douchebag who thinks he's hot shit for bleaching his brows.

His jeans are no-name, threadbare to the point of fashionable and he's wearing a  _bandana_  of all things, a Boy Scout gone wrong in all the right places, but his sweatshirt is Stussy, if discreetly so. Dirk, in his Supreme shirt, suddenly feels a little overdressed.

A little too Clark Kent, little bit too much like Kansas meets NYC. Enthusiastically so.

But Dave's finicky in a way he can appreciate from his vantage point behind a pillar far removed from the small, dingy stage. Messing with his mic, adjusting the set-up and fielding complaints and half-hurled jokes with easy retorts. At one point he has to stop and briefly tell some a guy in the first row, about three heads taller to  _shut the fuck up, Travis, you wouldn't know your head from your ass if your ma was around to hold your hand_.

The club whistles, the guy flushes and Dirk expects a fight to break out in the next five seconds, prepares himself for breaking bottles and getting the fuck out of dodge before he's collateral damage when the heat comes knocking. But surprisingly that's the end of it.

At least until Dave kicks a bottle out from the curtain, places it carefully upright on the edge of the stage. Flashes a thumbs-up beyond the crowd to the mixing booth, tucked in overhead because this place might be a dump, but it's still  _Brooklyn_. The cradle of all hip hop if you want to believe NYC and disregard LA.

But then the beat thrums to life, a low-base three-point, something a little synth and a little snare. It's nothing too original, but it's still  _good_ , better than anything they've heard live so far.

But the real deal, the real big thing is Dave's  _style_ , old-school like nothing he's ever heard before.

He's razor sharp, slurring vowels with a careful control that belies a lisp somewhere in his childhood, cutting off his rhymes with snaps of his teeth, short enamel clicks jolting through Dirk until he's sitting up so straight his back is aching.

His rap is straight forward rather than complex, more boom-bap than the Chopped & Screwed Dirk's used to from down South, trickling from Houston into the outskirts of New Orleans. No hints of Tech N9ne, but plenty old the slowed-down, bit out East Coast style he's heard up and down on old Biggie albums. Crooning and snarling a dime a dozen.

Dirk likes to get emotional, likes to get messy with it, raise his voice and let the flow come through the stream of aggression, but Dave,  _Dave_  raps like he owns the stage and couldn't give a single shit about it.

He's playing the crowd perhaps a little too much, turning a cold shoulder when he's immersed. But he's got home turf props and the advantage of NYC's sheer size. If they don't like it, he can take it somewhere else and never have to cross the area again.

Dirk, hailing from New Orleans with its measly 300k inhabitants in comparison to NYC's nine million, would not be that lucky, but he can admire the guts kid's got nevertheless.

It's hard enough being into underground shit at the tender age of twenty-three. Anti-radio and every constraint that comes with it. Make it big, but not too big jackhammered through his head from the moment he's picked up the mic in a parking lot. Fucked up spectacularly, tripped over half of his words and got booed off stage a few times, but fell so fast and hard for the sloppy drawl of his Louisiana hometown strung out in half-chopped sentences it felt like cement being poured down his gullet.

It's even harder being into hip hop,  _really_  into it and walking the Kinsey scale like a warped tightrope.

_ Assume everyone is straight _ , Jake had said low into his ear one evening, the older guys goofing around with an amp and some half-dissolved beats.  _Ain't gotta be that guy, shit gets around real fast._  And then, much later on the roof of Jake's sister's beat-down hummer,  _I know it's shit and if I could, I'd'a told everyone. But the kids learn from the previous generations and it wun't like nineties hip hop was especially accepting of queers. We'd be howled outta town, no suh._

He hadn't been bitter, not by a long standard and not with the lean expanse of Jake's thigh pressed up against his own, smoking no-brand until their fingers ached with it. But now, under the dim-lit light and Dave's teeth a slick, milky white, he wishes he could just go up and  _ask_.

Follow him into the bathroom and come back with wet purple running down the column of his throat and not be looked at with faint alienation.

Because he'd saw Jake and he'd  _wanted_ , but Dave, six feet of chutzpah crammed into five foot something, walking tall in size five knock-off Jordans, Dave. Dave.

Dave he  _lacks_.

But leaving without anything,  _anything_  would be leaving with a scab he can't help but prod at, rip open until it starts oozing blood and fibrinous exudates again. He'd, well, he wouldn't regret it for the rest of his life, but Dirk's not a man to overly chase melancholia when he can prevent it by taking action.

And so he follows Dave when his set is over, adrenaline finally abating. If he's anything like every other rapper he's encountered, he'll have to piss first, get drunk later.

It takes some time, mostly because Dave's busy clapping backs, shaking hands, bouncing on the tips of his black-shot high-tops with the kind of nervous energy persistently thrumming through his body. His fingers, clasped in the sleeves of his hoodie, are trembling just the slightest and his bandana is soaked with sweat, dark patches mottling paisley red into black-brown-umber.

But finally, he vanishes into the men's stalls to take a long, well-deserved piss and Dirk  _wants_  to follow him into the bathroom, but that's fucked up beyond three-penny dollar store romances, the kind of shit he'd get cuffed over the head for back home.  _Don't be creepy_ , Cal had said, getting him in a headlock, his grin still wide, friendly.  _Always fixin' to look people up and down with those eyes, nobody's into that kinda shit._

Antipodal is what he calls it, not when Cal's got a mouth the size of his two fists put together and the teeth to go with it, big, heavy fucker with unhinged eyes and a strange, rough fondness for him. But he tries to obey what they tell him by word only, tries not to look like he's per se  _waiting_  for Dave to get out of the bathroom.

Make it look like he's just trying to get through the door himself, bump into Dave when he emerges, still drying his hands off on the light-washed thread of his skinny jeans fitting just the side of baggy.

"Aw, shit," he says,  _liar, liar_ , reaching one hand out to steady Dave's shoulder. Even through the hoodie's thick fleece he feels how hot Dave runs, heat spiraling into the tips of his fingers like steam waves, "sorry about that. Y'alright?"

Dave looks him up and down once, twice and he's never been so aware of his unfortunate height, his too-large hands and too-slurred drawl. It's obvious three miles against the wind he's not from Brooklyn, much less from the are and while he'd never be ashamed of New Orleans, he's also acutely aware of NYC's hip hop elitism, faint as it might be.

"Dope," Dave finally says, his voice higher than he'd expected, but still so effortlessly clean he'd like to lay those words on his tongue, swallow them whole. "Don't sweat it, it's all good."

And then he turns to leave and Dirk's neurons light up  _no, no, come on_  in a steady pattern of one-two, one-two. "Hey," he calls out, voice steady through sheer effort. "You, you were the one stagin' right now, wun't you?"

Dave turns around, still balanced on the tips of his toes, a steady back and forth movement that adds to his height. He's not  _incredulous_ , amazingly too kind to call Dirk out on his obvious statement. Moon's up, water's wet, Dave was fronting. But he doesn't quite  _not_  smile either, corner of his mouth twitching in what seems to be an incredibly imbalanced poker face. Maybe he just wants Dirk to see his smile, but that's overthinking again, don't do that,  _don't be a creepster, Big Easy_.

"Sure was," he says easily, foot twitching, on the brink of stepping forward. His gaze is roaming Dirk so blatantly he'd blush if he wasn't already red-hot from the smoke and the heat and stale air suffusing his lungs, starving them out. Impossibly, Dave seems just the slightest bit flustered himself.

"Question is, twelve-ten," he says then, watching Dirk with a steady bounce of his feet. When he doesn't respond, called out on his relative affluence, wearing fucking Supreme to a dive bar, all flashy-brand names and burb-stick showiness, his gaze falters a bit, turns the slightest bit remorseful. But still he plows on and Dirk feels violently, greedily sick with the need to lay him bare and watch him cut his way through a flow, high croon of his voice over a synth riff, minor key.

"What's it to you, though?" Dave says, more affable than challenging, but with a hint of languid condescension, born-and-bred North and fairly knowledgeable in regards to his own feats.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

.

  
Dave takes him home through winding streets, back alleys filled with empty bottles, laundry lines and the first signs of morning creeping in through the steady whines and puffs of the garbage truck wheezing its way through too-narrow passageways.

He shares a studio apartment on the edge of the Bronx, with his brother or his father or someone else. A little less than 400 square feet, impossibly cramped but thoroughly lived in.

Polaroids everywhere,  _everywhere_ , draped over stacks of clothing, fluttering from his desk when Dave tugs his bandana off, throws it and just barely misses the tables, 90s original if he's looking right, dead-center.

A bed so messy it's a little uncomfortable to look at, tossed-back sheets and crumpled pillows, a second hoodie carelessly draped over one edge. Guitar, tiny USB keyboard plinking with black on white PVC, the standards for an aspiring musician, starving artist. The usual, but it's still an amalgamation of his private life, so freely displayed Dirk almost feels like a voyeur.

Dave's a Bronxite through and through, not even bothering to close the shutters before he's tugging Dirk towards him by his belt. Couldn't care less, Bulls in the Bronx-esque  _don't threaten me with a good time, maybe we've been having too much fun_ , nails scrabbling for purchase against Dirk's shoulders.

He's so small Dirk has to lean down to get access to his neck, tip-toed on the edge of those ridiculous knock-offs. Bitching low-keyed against the shell of Dirk's ear until he gets enough of it, has had it and bodily  _lifts_  him by the trim of his waist just to stop his running stream of complaints about Dirk's height,  _fucking Neanderthal, what kinda carrots do they feed you down there?_

Grabs him and hoists him up, his hoodie sliding halfway to the bottom of his ribcage, ridiculously baggy boxers, pale striped blue obscuring the dip of his groin just above the sag of his jeans.

Places him ass-first on the desk, hands still spanning his waist, tells him  _talk shit one more time, I swear, sha_  before he remembers most people don't like being bodily handled without their approval first.

And he's almost, almost at the point of ditching, getting out of the heat before Dave kicks him in the balls or calls the cops on him because that's  _not what people do, don't be creepy_. But Dave's grip is brutal on his wrists, his eyes very clear before he hooks one ankle behind Dirk's knees, pulls him in and palms the curve of his ass through his jeans.

Says  _you better show me the money if you're gonna do me like that_  like Dirk hasn't just grabbed and manhandled him without any warning. But Dave won't let any residual apologies come up, not with the bruising grip he's got on the back of Dirk's neck, not with the expanse of his knobby knee sliding in between Dirk's own thighs.

Beyond a quick fumble under someone else's sheets it isn't like he's had any experiences with guys. NO is small enough that the scenes are clearly divided. Everyone knows someone who's friends with someone else and the chain continues up to Dirk's own circles. No doubt that if he'd hook up with whoever'd be willing to accommodate a six-foot, gawky asshole with too-thick eyebrows and the empathetic capacities of a teaspoon and a half, it'd be back at his base in less than a week.

But Dave's wholly uncaring and clearly experienced, despite the fact that he  _must_  be at least one or two years younger. At that, he's briefly, wholly terrified of retribution, thinks  _oh God, fuck, what's the cap for statutory rape_ until he manages to get his mouth free, panting whilst Dave wipes spittle from his lips, breathes heavily. "How," he manages, hips jerking involuntarily when Dave's thigh slides up just  _so_ , "how old are you? You ain't a minor, is--"

"Nah," Dave replies, wheezing just the slightest. His face is flushed up all the way to his dark hair and that is definitely dyed, no one has hair this black and lashes this white. "More'n legal, I'd show you my ID if it didn't mean lettin' go of your dick."

And that's that, except it's  _not_ , not when Dave's got stars under his tongue and the slow drag of cotton against denim against hard bone going straight to Dirk's brain. Up through his spinal fluid and pressing hard fingers into the soft brain tissue of his pleasure center. He wish he'd know the words, something septal, something nuclear, straight up under his temporal cortices, oh God, Dave's fingers are white hot under his shirt.

"You gonna come for me," Dave hisses hazily into his ear, a steady stream of filth whilst he works Dirk's body like he'd worked the stage an hour before. Easily and with the disregard of youth, laurel-crowned with all its cockiness and immortal bravado. "You gonna fucking cream, three strokes in, just like that?"

It's a little, a lot, an Atlas' weight of embarrassing, hunched over Dave's slight form, tonguing the nape of his neck whilst his hips work through their own accord. But it's been weeks since he's gotten any, weeks since they left home for NYC, the promise of some gigs and a friend of a friend willing to hoist them up. Weeks and days and Dave's words are hard, but his eyes are soft peony, downs against the tight fit of his hands against Dirk's chest.

"Please," he hears himself gasp out unintelligibly, faint horror at the realization that his eyes are wet with the overload of Dave's attention and his mouth even wetter, saliva coiling along the ridges of his gums. "Please," again and at that Dave's mouth drops from amusement into  _tenderness_  and that's even harder to bear.

"S'alright, I didn't mean to," he murmurs,  _croons_ , before those hands ease, loosen to rub down his flanks, hot against the biting cold of the midnight air filtering through the open window. "Let me, c'mon."

For a moment he's faintly terrified of the notion of being  _let go_ , that Dave's gonna send him packing for asking too much and then not keeping up with the paces. Of being pitied, of being babied, perhaps. But all Dave does is walk him over to the bed, stripping off his too-large hoodie and stepping out of his jeans and socks before beckoning Dirk to do the same. "Big guy like you, it ain't comfortable to constantly have to hunch down, ain't it," he explains when Dirk's eyebrows crease involuntarily, his gaze shrewd. And that's new, those astute eyes measuring his responses. He's used to reading people, lighting them up and down with the weight of his stare, but Dave's cut him to the quick and the bleed is sluggish.

When they're both left in their underwear, or in Dave's case a horrifically baggy fine rib wifebeater, too big by three sizes at least and faintly grey from constant washing ( _my brother's_  he says with a half-choked laugh, a little embarrassed when Dirk finds the time to tug at it, chuckle into the curve of Dave's shoulder,  _don't_  laugh  _you shithead, s'been the only clean one left_ ), it's easier.

Much easier, in fact, to push up against Dave's thigh, the crease of his groin, trace his neck, his throat, the lids of his too-pale eyes. It's hard to convey  _I want to lick your eyeballs_  in words, so he settles for his hands spanning Dave's waist, brushing against his clothed cock occasionally. Making him sigh in content, lashes fluttering to a half-close. Beating spindly patterns against his cheeks.

It's too messy and uncomfortable still by far, the smell of the club and the faint tang of drying sweat still coating both of them from head to toe. But Dave chokes on tiny syllables every time he rubs his palm against the head of his cock, clear-cut  _ah, ah, ah_  on every upswing. And that's-- yeah.

Dirk's faintly aware of talking when he comes, cock pressed between Dave's groin and thigh. Stream of consciousness, half of it straight up dirt and half things he'll regret in the morning, too close, too close, too personal. Dave doesn't push him to remove his briefs and he's grateful for that, even when the front of his pants is just the tiniest bit sticky and uncomfortable.

That's gonna itch later, but Dave's still red-hot flushed and when Dirk asks whether he's got condoms he nods hastily, almost brains Dirk in the face pointing at the nightstand.

Rolling a condom over a cock that isn't your own proves to be a delicate matter, but it's worth the half-lit fumbling under Dave's heavy eyes when his mouth fills with artificial cherry flavour. He scrapes his teeth, accidentally and Dave  _thrashes_ , tugs his hair until Dirk reigns his mouth in, pulling him closer by the hips, arms wrapped almost wholly around the bony slide of his tailbone. "Y'ain't got a fuckin' ass," he manages in between clumsy licks, hears the throb of Dave's laughter vibrate all the way down his spine. Smiles when Dave whacks the side of his head, tells him to shut his mouth, no,  _no, not like that, don't be a bitch, oh my God_.

He'd like it to be slow and sweet some time, without the gratuitous insults and half-baked barbs traded back and forth, but Dave's getting impatient and his mouth is starting to ache, so he's fairly relieved when Dave comes almost silently, going stiff all over and then beautifully lax.

Neither of them have the awareness and good foresight to clean up, so Dave knots the condom and tosses it in the general direction of the bin. Sighs when it splats onto the floor wetly, gets up only to curse all the way through the room and back.

He's cranked open the window to let the used-up air out and it's too-cold by far, but Dave's neck is warm and he doesn't mind Dirk burrowing his nose against its soft slide, doesn't seem to mind the death grip Dirk's got on him, clutching him like a ragdoll. His hands seem even smaller when they slide through his hair, the catch of nails raising goosebumps on his forearms.

He's tired and strung out and doesn't know whether Dave won't kick him out tomorrow, whether his crew will have noticed him ditching them with nothing but a by-your-leave. But the sun's coming up and the streets are waking, city blinking itself into awareness. The birds are still so quiet. Dave's hands are so warm. Dave's mouth is, his voice. Dave.

Dirk sleeps.


End file.
